Chocolate Cream
by asyouwishxladyswan
Summary: "Okay, then. What's your pie?" ::One-shot::


**Title:** Chocolate Cream

**Rating: **PG

**Length: **One-shot (2152 words)

**Pairings:** (implied) Nick/Dean; implied mentions of Nick/Sarah & Dean/Lisa

**Era:** Post-episode 5.22: "Swan Song"

**Warnings:** Spoilers for season 05

**Summary: **_"Okay, then. What's your pie?"_

**Note:** Written for Tag War on LJ community - spn_nick. Was tagged by LJ user - x_shadowwings_x with the prompt - _'Nick/Dean, discovering which pie filling Nick prefers the most'_

**Note 2: **Got to say, it turned out _way _more angsty (and less slashy) than I originally thought it would.

* * *

The routine had been the same tonight - just like every other night for the past week.

He came back to the house, his wandering around and destination during the day really the only things that ever seemed to change. He ate a nice, warm, home-cooked meal with Lisa and Ben - played the role of someone adapting to family life quite well. He asked after her day; he listened as Ben talked all about just how much Mac in the other class acted like a complete asshole (well, okay, Lisa wouldn't allow Ben to actually _call_ the kid an "asshole" ... but he knew that's what the boy really wanted to say).

He smiled and answered their questions about how he was doing when they asked. He laughed when they needed him to, and he spent the last hour before it was time for Ben to go to bed watching the kid's favorite show with him. Ben seemed to enjoy that ... and, well, who was he to say no to the kid?

Lisa would go to bed just before 11:30, knowing that he would follow her right around midnight. That first night, he had tried to go down with her, had tried to be the whole "perfect live-in boyfriend" that he thought he should be. But she had known him better than that - and knew that, for now at least, he needed that time.

Those few, brief moments where there was no one else around. Where it was just him - and only him.

And, really, tonight had been the same as all those other nights.

He really should have expected things wouldn't last.

_Dean._

He knew he was dreaming. He knew he _had_ to be dreaming. Because the one who that voice belonged to couldn't actually be talking to him ... not now, not here.

It was over.

_You need to go there, Dean._

He didn't even question the fact that he knew, immediately, where "there" was.

_Now, Dean. Go, now._

Dean Winchester opened his eyes, got up, packed his bags, and with a kiss and a note, got in his car.

He had somewhere to be.

* * *

Dean pulled up next to the old apartment building, the Impala's windshield wipers going at high speeds to keep the rain away and allow him a (semi) clear view of the surroundings. It had taken just around four hours to get here, and the rain storms had started about the time as he was passing through Toledo. They had started out pretty mildly, but had gradually grown in intensity as he got closer and closer towards the metropolis and normally fairly active city.

Except - and he was glad for this small fact - it definitely was _not_ very active and thriving at nearly 4:30 in the morning.

He took a few moments - a brief chance to collect himself - before getting out of the car and running through the pouring rain as he rushed towards the building that he'd left not even two weeks ago.

Strange, how it felt like _so ... much ... longer ..._

He shook his head, water flinging aside as he pushed away the thoughts and memories that this place kept trying to push into his mind. He climbed the stairs quickly, not bothering to keep quiet; he already knew the place was empty -

Well, almost empty.

Empty of pretty much everything that mattered.

He figured no one would ever be able to make this place "livable" for humans again; it just had too much of a negative _feel_ about it ... or something.

(Although, there was no doubt that _someone, somewhere_ would try to turn this place into manageable housing, and he'd fail. Then there'd be another. And another. And another. But it wouldn't change the simple truth.)

Life had left this place long ag-

_Creak!_

Dean stopped, turned around. He knew that wasn't him. He was _sure_ that it wasn't him.

He pulled the gun from his pocket before continuing on, now allowing some caution to creep into his search. Glancing into the nearest room, he saw it was just like all the others had been (and just like he expected the rest of the place to be) - empty. The next was the same, as was the third and the fourth.

When he reached the end of the hall, he paused. And he hesitated.

He knew what was behind this door; he knew what had _happened_ behind this door.

Exhaling to calm his nerves - _Since when did _those _get so bad, _he thought - he crept inside the final room on the floor.

And swung his gun up to point at the figure that was sitting up - alive and well - in a ragged, beat down and really-impossible-to-fix-because-it's-beyond-all-hope-and-in-desperate-need-of-just-being-thrown-away covered chair.

"You're not him," he said. "You _can't _be him."

Nick shook his head, seemingly not surprised by the hunter's arrival. If anything, he almost looked like he _expected_ it, like he was _waiting_ for the other man to arrive.

And _that_, Dean knew, was just crazy.

"It's not crazy."

Dean started at the sound of Nick's voice. "Wh-What'd you say?" he asked.

"I know what you're thinking," said the older man, looking up for the first time since Dean had entered the room and meeting his intense gaze. "You're thinking that it had to be crazy, me knowing you'd show up here."

"Well, yeah, but-"

"You're also thinking there's no way I should even be _alive _right now," Nick continued, paying no attention to the fact that Dean had tried to speak. "You're thinking this whole ... thing, whatever it is ... is even more messed up than you'd thought it'd be. And _that_ was even after you woke up and left your place because you heard a voice in your dream telling you to come back here. To Detroit."

Dean tried to speak - he really did - when Nick had finished. He tried to find just the right thing to say, just the right question (or answer).

But he had nothing.

"All I know is, I woke up - I don't know, a day ago - and your friend, that angel, he just told me to wait for you here. That you'd show up."

"And ... what? Then things are supposed to start making sense?" Dean sighed and started pacing back and forth, turning his back on Nick. _It was just_ like _Cas to do something like this, damnit! _he thought.

Nick shrugged. "I don't know."

"'Course you don't," muttered Dean. He glanced over at the older man, really taking in his whole appearance for the first time since he arrived. And, he had to admit, Dean was surprised.

Nick looked _good_.

Not only was Nick physically alive, but he really was _well_. Whatever had happened to his body as it played house to the Devil had been wiped away, healed, cured, whatever. No more sores, no more scars. His clothes even looked as if they'd been washed.

_Cas,_ Dean realized suddenly, remembering the little detail of the angel's visit.

Physically, the man looked better than Dean had ever seen him ... (which, he had to admit, wasn't saying much, considering the first time he saw the guy he'd already been the Devil's vessel for a couple months).

But as for the poor guy's head, Dean had to wonder as he looked at Nick. He had to wonder how much Nick remembered. He had to wonder how much Nick had even seen or knew _to_ remember in the first place.

If anyone could use a drink ...

"So, you've been here this whole time?" said Dean. "Ever since things went down a week ago?"

Glancing up as if he was mentally counting the days before he answered, Nick nodded. "Yeah, I guess. Why?"

Dean shrugged. "Well ... you hungry?"

* * *

"_How _can you even stand to eat that?"

Dean glanced up from the now-empty fork and swallowed the final bite of his strawberry-rhubarb pie. "What?" he asked innocently, taking a sip of the coffee to wash the dessert down. "You have something against pie?"

Nick shook his head and reached for his own mug. "Not pie," he said. He pushed the remains of the cold fries around on his plate, his eyes wandering around the mostly empty diner they'd stopped in at to grab something to eat. "I have absolutely nothing against _pie_ itself. But _strawberry-rhubarb_?"

"It sounded good," said Dean, shrugging. He waved the waitress over to refill their coffee and turned to Nick once she'd left, a challenging look on his face. "Okay, then," he said. "What's your pie?"

"My pie?"

"Yeah. Your pie."

Things were quiet for a moment as Nick leaned back in the vinyl booth, coffee mug wrapped in his hands, the hot, black liquid steaming. He didn't move once he'd settled, and his eyes almost seemed to glaze over as he drifted back, memories of times past floating through his head.

He remembered his grandma's apple pie that they had nearly every Sunday. He remembered the warm taste of the apples, the extra cinnamon flavor she'd sprinkle in. And how no one but Grandma could _ever_ get that apple pie _just_ right.

He remembered his Aunt Cheryl's home-made pumpkin pie that they had every Thanksgiving ... and sometimes at Christmas, if she felt like making it again (which she usually did).

He remembered the bakery down on the corner of 5th and Madison, and how no one could make a better banana cream pie than the owner, Mrs. Peterson.

He remembered his sister's pecan pie, and his cousin's peanut butter pie. He remembered an old girlfriend had made him the _best_ cherry pie he'd ever tasted before - and he'd never tasted another cherry pie better than hers since then, either.

He remembered blueberry pies, and blackberry pies. He remembered key lime pies and lemon meringue pies.

But there was one, one kind of pie, that he remembered - and knew - and loved - above all those others that he had tasted.

"Chocolate cream," he whispered, not even realizing he'd spoken the words aloud until Dean's voice broke through his memories.

"What was that?" Dean asked, glancing up at the older man. "What'd you say?"

Nick just gave a sad sort of smile as he answered. "My pie," he said. "It's chocolate cream."

* * *

The fact that the mood in the diner earlier had suddenly gone from jovial to somber was not lost on either man, so they had quickly wrapped up what was left of their meals and headed out. Finding themselves somewhat reluctant to part ways, and already starting to feel the encroaching feelings of tiredness, they decided to head somewhere ...

At least for the night.

Neither Nick nor Dean had spoken barely a word since the "pie conversation" earlier in the diner, and Dean was in desperate need of _some_ sort of conversation. No matter how long he lived - how old he got - that was one habit he just could never manage to break.

He'd never learned how to "sit still and be quiet!"

But even here and now, he was somewhat lost at what to say.

So Dean was glad (in a way) when Nick broke the silence.

"It was how we met, you know," he said, and Dean struggled to keep his confusion hidden. Nick glanced his way and answered the unasked question anyway. "My wife, the pie was hers."

"The chocolate cream?"

Nick nodded. "It was a long time ago, but ... It was my sister who knew her first, introduced us, you know ..." The words drifted off, and Dean spared a glance at the man who he'd come to ... well, care about, really ...

He didn't wonder about the fact that he barely knew the man. He didn't wonder about the fact that the guy had been the Devil for the past several months, doing everything in his power to bring about the end of the world itself. He didn't wonder about Nick's past, or his own future.

Dean didn't think about the fact that, in most eyes, his sudden development of caring towards Nick might seem odd.

Not a single bit of that crossed Dean's mind as he looked at Nick, because he _knew_. He knew the truth, and he knew that he cared.

Especially since it wasn't hard to see parts of himself in the older man.

Lost.

Broken.

Irreparable souls.

Dean no longer had to ask or wonder why someone would say, "Yes," to Lucifer. How someone could be so far gone that they have nothing left, that they see no other way than to give themselves to the Devil himself.

Only one thing could make someone that broken.

Only one thing - only _losing_ one thing - could bring someone to that kind of ledge.

That kind of brink.

Only _family_ had that kind of power over someone.

And in that regard, Dean understood.

He understood _perfectly_.

-FINITE-


End file.
